


God Love 'Em (all they chase is each other and certain death)

by tcwordsmith



Series: God Love 'Em [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tcwordsmith/pseuds/tcwordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ellen has just the thing to get Victor back in the saddle.  Of course, for all her fair warnings, he can't seem to avoid the one set of hunters she wishes he would. </p><p>AKA: Everyone hits on Victor and god only knows how he misses it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God Love 'Em (all they chase is each other and certain death)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [false_alexis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/false_alexis/gifts).



> This is kind of Part 1, but it is a completed fic that can stand on its own. I just started writing the second part and it's either going to be long, or difficult, or both, so I decided to sever them and submit this for the challenge and post the second one when I finish it later this week. As little slash as this one has, the next one has it in spades I promise.

“Got you a demon up in Illinois,” Ellen slaps a file folder on the bar in front of him as soon as she sees him.

 

He picks it up and dutifully thumbs through the information, skimming as he goes, “Demon in Illinois, huh?”  He quirks an eyebrow and pauses at a picture of one of the victims.

 

“Don’t give me that look, Vic.  You knew this was comin’, or you shoulda known.  A hunter’s trauma is either his greatest asset or his all-consuming weakness.  You got your ass handed to you by the demon’s demon, but it’s time to get back in the saddle.  There ain’t enough specialists out there these days.”

 

Victor sets down the file, “Why don’t you _get_ the specialists in on this then?”  Ellen slides a beer across the bar to him and he catches it easily.

 

“Now, Vic.  Don’t tell me you think those boys _specialize_ in anything. God love ‘em, but the only things those Winchesters have _ever_ chased are each other and certain death.  Besides, they’re still all wrapped up in that apocalypse they found—like it ain’t always the end of the world around here.  Nope, this one’s all yours,” she taps the file and walks off to take an order at the other end of the bar.

 

Victor sighs and opens the file again, delving deeper into the information.  He’s not sure how much time passes before Ellen sets a fresh beer in front of him. “Well?” she asks.

 

“Don’t suppose I could convince you to come with me?” He asks, shooting her half a grin.  She purses her lips and shakes her head.

 

“Not for love or money,” she says, wiping down the space next to him.

 

He nods, “Thought I’d ask anyway.  I’ll go anyway I guess.”

 

“That’s good, because you’re the only one I’ve got to do it.  If you manage to hit Kansas by night fall, Jo should have a spare bed for ya,” Ellen’s mouth almost twitches into a smile as she whisks away his empty bottle.  “An’ keep your fuckin’ nose clean, huh?”

 

“I’m a retired Fed, Ellen.  My nose is always clean,” he says, standing up and draining the second beer.  After setting it back on the bar, careful not to leave a wet ring, he tucks the file under his arm.

 

“Uh huh,” Ellen says, wiping the bar with her rag, “In my experience, it’s usually the cops who think they’re above the law, not just able to scoot around it, so just humor me, okay?”  Victor flashes a tight smile and nods at a couple hunters as he makes his way across the bar and slips out the door.

 

Two days later, he’s seen Jo and made it to Normal, Illinois, where the omens all seem to center.  Victor sidesteps the local law enforcement and into the morgue under vaguely passable credentials he lifted off of Martin Alton, a deceased agent he could almost pass for.

 

“These are the three most recent victims,” Eli, the medical examiner’s assistant, flips back the sheets on three bodies.  Victor nods, consciously switches to breathing through his mouth and flips through his notes.

 

It doesn’t take long until he finds what he was looking for, “Local LEOs say five confirmed vics.”

 

Eli nods and moves to the medical examiner’s desk, “Right, right of course. The first two victims—” he lingers on the word as he flips through a couple of case files on the desk, “Ah, here it is!  The first two victims came through, the medical examiner autopsied them, the CSI people came through and got all they could from them, and well…They had families who wanted to bury them, so the medical examiner released the bodies.”

 

“Of course,” Victor murmurs, after all it’s very agreeable—who wouldn’t want to let grieving families bury their college age kids?  He jots a note next to the first two names to remind himself to call Ellen about potential manifestations—no reason to let potential ghosts fester.  “Is there any way I could get a copy of those reports now?”

 

“Sure you can, Agent,” Eli grins and hands over a set of packets, “All the pertinent details, none of the decaying corpses.  And!” He leans over the desk to snag something, “My boss’s card, with my personal number on the back.  Just in case you have any more questions come up.”

 

“Thanks! Oh,” Victor flips to the back of his notebook and unclips a card, “Here’s my card too.  Hopefully nothing will come up but, if it does—”

 

Eli plucks the card from Victor’s hand with another smile, “I’d be glad to let you know, Agent Alton.  Don’t hesitate to call. –With questions! Any questions.”  He winks and Victor flashes a quick smile.

 

“Thanks again.  I’ll just show myself out,” he says and after a wave from Eli, he heads for the rental car.

 

After dropping the rental off at the dealership, Victor walks the half mile to his mote in the pouring down rain.  He reasons with himself that it’s easier to rent a town car for the few official appearances he has to make then it is to convince anyone that an FBI agent would work out of a pickup truck.

 

At the motel, Victor wrings as much water out of his clothes as he can and makes that call to Ellen.

 

“You’ve only been gone two days; miss me already, Henriksen?”  Ellen greets him.

 

Victor lets himself fall back on the bed.  “Ash hooking up caller ID was the worst idea,” he mutters.  Ellen hums noncommittally and he takes that as his cue to get on with it.  “So,” he says, “Let’s say, uh, two victims are already buried.  What’s the chance they’ll go all vengeful spirit?”  He rubs a hand over his face.

 

“I’d say the chances are pretty decent that they eventually will, why?  You get some EMF readings?”  Ellen’s voice is muffled, so he figures she’s put him on speaker phone while she works.

 

He shakes his head, “No, haven’t been out to those crime scenes yet,  I was concentrating on the recent ones since they show signs of escalation.  Any way other than salt and burn to preempt both of them from becoming ghosts?”

 

 

Ellen chuckles, “Aw, Vic.  You ain’t been in the life long enough to be going soft on me.  They’re recent burials, just make sure to rebury them after you dig ‘em up.  Salt ‘n’ burn’s always the way to go with ghosts.”

 

“Fine, fine.  I’ll take care of it tonight.  Oh, Jo said hey and that I’m not to tell you what all she’s been up to,” he scratches the back of his head and sits up.

 

He can almost hear the smile in Ellen’s voice, “Aw, you tell my baby girl I know what all she’s been up to; she is my kid after all.”

 

Victor stands and thumbs through the delivery menus on the side table. “Tell her y’self,” he mumbles.

 

“Oh, you know I probably will.  You take care, Vic; I got a bunch of hungry assholes to take care of,” Ellen lets him say good bye before she hangs up this time.

 

He manages to order and eat his dinner, and is out checking the supplies in the truck when his phone rings. “Hey, El.  I feel like I just talked to you a minute ago—miss me already?”

 

“Can it, Vic.  I just called t’keep you in the loop—somethin’s up with the Winchesters.  They’re not—I don’t know what they’re doin’, but at least one of them is in Chicago right now,” Ellen sounds harassed.

 

Victor shuts the back of the truck and sits on the bumper, “They catch the same case you tossed me then?” he asks.

 

Ellen swears softly and replies, “No, it’s your case and they’re too up their own asses with this apocalypse thing to care about some demon in Normal.  Or they should be.  Just be careful; fuck only knows what they’re doing.  Someone swears they saw Dean with that one crossroads demon—Crowley or whatever.”

 

He lets out a low whistle, “Y’think they might be switchin’ sides?”

 

“I _think_ since they started worrying more about their kill count and less about their saves it’s been easier to stay aware of what they _are doing_ than it is to worry about what they _might_ do.  Remember—”

 

Victor cuts her off, “I know, I know, the Winchesters are good hunters like Hannibal is a good psychiatrist.  I’ll leave ‘em alone—I barely got out last time.”

 

“Okay, good, I gotta go, you take care,” Ellen hangs up.  He sighs, sticks his phone in his pocket and heads for the graveyard.

 

“Mother _fuck_ ,” Victor grumbles, climbing out of the second grave.  He opens his hand and digs in his pocket for what he found in the first grave. “Winchesters are here for sure.  Damn it,” he turns the pair of slightly charred lighters over in his hands.  “Didn’t even bother to clean up nothin’,” he mumbles, pocketing both lighters and reaching for his shovel.

 

There’s another death before Victor has enough information to set a trap for the demon.  He’s also nearly run into the Winchesters twice and gotten a call from Eli about “those two incredibly attractive coworkers of yours” he could have done without.  By the end of his first week, he’s pretty sure he’s got the demon’s M.O. down.

 

On the eighth night, he sets up and purposefully wanders around the college campus and the bars until he’s sure he’s being followed.  Confident that he’s been targeted, Victor picks a bar and waits until the demon makes an appearance.

 

“Hey there, handsome, haven’t I seen you around campus?”  She slides onto the stool next to him and smiles.

 

He smiles back and looks her up and down, “Sweetheart, if you’ve seen me, I have no idea how I missed _you_.  Buy you a drink to make up for it?”  Victor waves the bartender over as the demon giggles lightly.  “Another beer, and whatever this lovely lady would like,” he tells him.

 

“Lemon drop,” she says, sliding a hand along Victor’s arm.    He manages to refrain from shuddering as they get their drinks.

 

“By the way, I’m Cyndi,” she tells Victor.

 

Realizing this is probably the name of her meatsuit, Victor manage to dredge up a smile, “I’m Victor.”

 

After a few minutes of small talk, she turns to him and smiles apologetically. “Sweetie, I’m _terrible_ at small talk,” she admits.

 

“Oh, thank god,” Victor feigns relief, “Me too, you wanna—” he trails off, glancing at the door.

 

“Yeah, I wanna,” she bites her lip and bats her eyelashes.  He quickly settles the tab and they slip out of the bar.

 

“My place is just down the block,” Victor says, gesturing down the street, “You need to call anyone?”

 

The demon looks confused for a second and then, “Oh, Tracey knows where I was going, and you look like a good guy anyway.”  She smiles sweetly and hooks her arm through his.

 

“Okay, well, you look like a nice girl too,” Victor jokes.  She laughs and they head down the street.

 

After a few minutes, Victor slows down, “There’s a short cut to my building through this next alley, if you’re okay with that.”  He nods at the opening ahead of them.

 

“I trust you, Victor,” she says, “lead on!”

 

He takes a breath, runs his hand in his pocket over the recorder, and leads them down the alley.  They hit the devil’s trap when he expected, but instead of him walking out again, she tightens her grip on his arm.

 

“You shit stain of a hunter,” she spits, using her considerable strength to turn him toward her, “Walking me over a goddamn devil’s trap.  Break it,” she demands, wrapping her free hand around his throat and digging her nails in, “Break it or I break you.”  She jerks him down toward the edge of the trap by his throat, intending for him to scrape it open, but he just balls his hands into fists.

 

“N-nh,” he tries to get out a ‘no’ but can’t quite manage.  Her eyes flash black and she tightens her grip.

 

“It wasn’t a request, baby.  You’ll break it or I’ll kill you and scream for help.  Then I’ll kill that waste of a good meatsuit too,” she hisses.

 

He scrabbles his fingers on the recorder still in his pocket, trying to press the play button on the exorcism he has cued up.  Black spots start creeping around the edges of his vision and he can’t quite press the button.

 

“Your choice, sweetie,” she further tightens her grip, “Last chance.  Goin’ on—” before she gets started, Victor hears the crack of a shot gun and the demon staggers, her grip loosening enough for him to get away.  He still has to wrench his shoulder out of its socket to get his arm out of hers, but he manages.

 

“Holy mother of fucking fuck,” she shouts, lunging for Victor and being brought up short by the trap, “Goddamn it!” She stomps a stilettoed foot and cracks the heel.

 

Victor finally presses the button and pulls the recorder out of his pocket.  Before he passes out, he thinks he hears heavy footfalls coming down the alley and a shout that sounds like, “Black-eyed bitch!”

 

“—ctor.  Wake up,” a voice cuts through the nothing and Victor feels a hand slapping his face.  “Goddamn it, Henriksen, I know you ain’t dead,” an increasingly familiar voice insists.

 

Victor weakly tries to stop the hand headed for his face again, “’m up. Fuck.”  He gets a good look at the person holding him up by his jacket.  “Aw, fuck _me_ , it’s th’ fuckin’ _Winchesters_ ,” he groans and sags backward.  He’ll feel worse when he realizes he said it out loud.

 

“Yeah, the fuckin’ Winchesters who just _saved your ass_.  Get up, FBI, gotta get getting’ and you ain’t exactly a fairy princess,” Dean, it’s Dean holding onto him of course it is, says.

“Okay, okay,” Victor slurs his words, trying to get up only to have his arm give out on him.

 

Dean grips him under the armpit and hoists him up. “Wrenched your shoulder getting’ away from the bitch, I needed ya awake to—” he heaves and torques Victor’s arm back into its socket and Victor shouts, “—Get it back in.  C’mon.  We got LEOs comin’ and a dead co-ed we can’t exactly prove was a demon a couple minutes ago.  Let’s get getting.”  He pulls Victor down the alley by his good arm.

 

The infamous Impala is idling at the head of the alley and there’s no time to protest before Dean unceremoniously dumps him in the back seat and turns around with a terse, “Drive, Sam.”  Not bothering to figure out what else Dean is saying, Victor opts to pass out again.

 

“Gotta wake up, Henriksen.  You hit your head pretty hard in that alley; you might be concussed.”  Victor opens his eyes, blinking against the bright lights in the room, just to see Sam leaning over and setting a glass of water and a couple of unidentified pills on the side table.

 

He groans and takes the pills dry, chasing them with water after he swallows. “Don’t,” he says plaintively, rubbing the side of his head until he finds the knot.

 

Sam raises an eyebrow, “Don’t what?”  He moves to sit at the table and opens his laptop.

 

“Do the placating, sweet-faced innocent thing.  I know you, you know.  It’s creepy, considering your history,” Victor mumbles, holding the almost-cold glass to the tender spot.

 

Dean chooses that moment to shove his way inside the motel room.  “Scored a second ice bucket for Sleepin’ Beau—oh, hey, you’re up again!”  He strides across the room, letting the door fall shut behind him.  After he sets the bucket down, he flashes a smirk at Victor.  “Sammy do th’ creepy Florence Nightingale thing t’get you up?”

 

“It’s no—I’m not _creepy_ ,” Sam insists, glowering over his laptop.

 

Dean looks at Victor, then Sam. “It’s kinda creepy, Sammy,” he says, scrunching his face.  He fills a bag with ice and tosses it at Victor. 

 

He manages to catch the ice pack with his good arm and places it directly over the knot, “Think I could get one of those for the shoulder?  Thanks for not fuckin’ it up worse, by the way.”

 

“Sure man,” Dean flicks another smirk Victor’s direction and makes up a second ice bag. “Thanks for not actually bein’ dead,” he says, bringing the bag over and settling it on Victor’s shoulder.  “I’ll get ya some more painkillers after we make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

 

Sam makes a face at Dean and pulls out his cell phone. “Gonna call Ellen,” he mutters, punching in the phone number.

 

Victor makes a face and Dean holds up his hands and preempts his questions, “Ellen told us you got away from Lilith.  And we just need t’make sure we got away clean.  If anyone’s heard anything, Ellen’s heard everything.”

 

“I know that. I was wondering why the hell _you_ were calling her,” Victor mutters, adjusting both bags of ice.

 

“Well, FBI, you’re on ice at the moment, thought you could use a pinch-hitter,” Dean’s smile is definitely forced this time as he stands up and goes to clean up the ice buckets.

 

“Okay, okay, didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Victor mumbles.  He fumbles in his pocket for his cell phone, sees immediately that he has about ten missed calls.  “How long was I out for?” he asks.

 

Sam pipes up, “About two hours.  Ellen’s askin’ if you’re okay.  You okay, Henriksen?”

 

“You mean she sent him up here?” Dean looks surprised.  “You weren’t just here following some hunch or whatever?”

 

Victor sighs, “Yes she sent me up here.  There were portents and I needed a demon case, it shoulda been another soft pitch.”

 

Sam holds the phone away from his ear, “Yeah, yeah, okay Ellen, we’ll have him call you just as soon—yes ma’am, he’s all in one piece. Okay, ‘bye Ellen.”  He tosses the phone away from him and rolls his neck.  “She’s not impressed.  Says it woulda been a soft pitch, but there was some shoddy info sharing I guess.  You need to call her soon.”

 

“I can do that,” Victor agrees, starting to type in the number.

 

“Not tonight, big guy,” Dean says, taking the phone and tossing it on the bed side table.  “Your pupils look okay, we’ll wake you up again later to check, but f’right now you’re gonna get some halfway decent sleep, man.”

 

Victor looks mutinous. “You don’t call the shots,” he grumbles, “’m my own boss now.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes and lightly pushes Victor’s chest to ease him back on the bed, “Yeah, yeah.  You’re your own FBI boss-man now.  But you need some sleep, right?  So get some sleep, an’ you can go right back to bein’ the boss-man. When you get up, I’ll give ya some more of the good drugs.”

 

As soon as his head hits the pillow, Victor’s grumbling dies off.  The last thing he sees before he passes out is Dean’s half smirk.

 

Victor slowly rouses himself, what he hopes is several weeks later, but what feels like twenty minutes after he passed out, and hears the brothers talking to each other.

 

“So we’re gonna keep ‘im today too?” Sam asks, not looking up from whatever he’s typing.

 

Dean nods and pulls a pair of beers out of the refrigerator, “Yup.  Here,” he sets one down next to Sam’s elbow.  Sam immediately moves it to the _coaster_ on his other side.  “So, I was thinkin’,” Dean opens the beer and takes a drink, pausing to let Sam make a joke, but Sam just nods, “I was _thinkin’,_ maybe we should just…Keep ‘im.  I mean, clearly he’s all the way in, which Ellen didn’t tell us, an’ he’s dumb enough not to stop just because we tell him to.  We could set up camp at Bobby’s for a while, go out in shifts.  I’d say we could all just pile in Baby, but with Cas poppin’ in an’ out on the regular, she’s is gonna get a little cramped with four dudes.”

 

The typing finally stops and Victor suppresses a moan of relief, he’s got a killer headache and everything hurts and it sounds like he’s only been out for a matter of hours, but he’s not ready to let them know he’s up yet.  “Well,” Sam says over the sound of the laptop shutting, “I mean, if Bobby’s cool with us crashing, and _if Victor wants to_ , I don’t see a problem with it.”

 

He figures this is his cue, “Victor only wants meds,” he mutters.  Sam starts a bit, but Dean just sets his bottle down and smiles.

 

“Oh yeah?  Thought you’d be singin’ a different tune when ya got up.  They’re by your good arm,” he says, stretching before standing and heading into the bathroom.

 

Two attempts later, Victor has the pills and manages to swallow them dry.  Dean sets a glass of water on the nightstand next to the pill bottle and Victor gets about half of it down.  “Thanks,” he says, setting the glass back on the nightstand.

 

“’Course.  So, you wanna weigh in?”  Dean asks, settling on the other bed.

 

Victor tries to crack his neck and winces, “About your master plan?  Yeah, I’m in.”

 

“That easy?”  Sam raises his eyebrows in surprise.

 

“Yup,” Victor gropes under the pillow for his phone and hits speed dial two, not bothering to elaborate.

 

“You better be dead, callin’ right before I open up the bar,” Ellen says cheerfully when she answers.

 

Victor coughs out a laugh, “Near to did,” he insists.

 

“Y’still breathin’ aren’t you?”  he knows she’s smiling when she says it.

 

“Yup.  Still breathin’.  Got a couple of almost too late knights in shining armor to thank for that,” Victor says.

 

Ellen doesn’t say anything for a moment, then, “Yeah, well, you coulda done it without ‘em.  Told you to steer the hell clear of them, didn’t I?”

 

“Right, but I didn’t.  And I couldn’t, apparently.  So…” He trails off.

 

She sighs loudly and he hears something crash to the floor, “Goddamn it, you’re goin’ with ‘em aren’t you?”

 

Victor shrugs, then winces again, “I figure they might know a trick or two.”

 

“Each other and certain death, Vic.  That’s all they’re after,” Ellen warns him, knowing it’s useless.

 

“Yeah, well maybe it’s time I tried a little more risk with my reward,” he tries and fails to sound nonchalant.

 

“I’ve still got your back, even if I think you’re a dumbass,” Ellen sighs.  Before Victor can say anything, she hangs up.  He tosses the phone back on the bed.

 

Dean breaks the ensuing silence, “She didn’t like it?”

 

“There’s not much El likes, you know that,” Victor replies, gingerly heaving himself off the bed.

 

“We aren’t in any hurry, man,” Sam says, half standing to help him.

 

Victor waves him off, “All my stuff’s at the other motel.”

 

Dean twirls his keys around his finger once, “I’ll give ya a lift.  Hold the fort, Sammy.”

 

Sam rolls his eyes, “Bring back coffee.”  Dean winks at him and lets Victor lead the way into the parking lot.

==

 

“Bobby, we’re headed your way,” Dean grins as he puts the Impala in gear.  He checks his rearview to make sure Sam’s following in Victor’s truck and Victor flips him off.  “It’s cool to come up, right?”

 

He can’t see it, but he imagines Bobby rolling his eyes.  “Course it’s okay, ya idjit.  What d’I even have two other bedrooms for?” 

 

Dean laughs and eases onto the main road, “Yeah, so hey.  Remember that, uh, FBI agent that was tryin’ to catch me an’ Sammy a little while back?  We though Lilith killed ‘im but Ellen said he turned up at her new place a couple months later?”

 

“Yeah, I remember him.  He’s blown through here once or twice,” Bobby says cautiously.

 

“Well, uh,” Dean flicks his gaze to the rearview mirror again and then back to the road, “We found ‘im in Normal and we’re bringing him home with us.”

 

“Dean, Henriksen isn’t some sort of goddamn puppy.  Y’can’t keep him as a pet,” Bobby says.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.  He’s not a pet.  He’s just uh, hurt.  Demon tried t’kill ‘im.  Besides, he was huntin’ all by himself, and that’s just.  He avoided dyin’ once, why tempt that shit?”  He speeds up as they hit the interstate, “Anyway, it’s just temporary.  Show him some stuff Ellen can’t since she won’t go on the road.”

 

Bobby sighs, “Okay, boy.  You better know what yer doin’.  An’ so long as that’s _all_ you’re doin’.”

 

“Always do, Bobby,” Dean smirks as he replies.

 

“Now, if that just ain’t the most bald-face—”

 

He interrupts Bobby, “See ya soon.  An’ maybe don’t worry about what else I might be doin’,” Dean ends the call and tosses the phone into the passenger seat.  Sioux Falls is at least nine hours away, and he figures Victor won’t want to make the trip all in one go with his injuries.  He smiles to himself and taps out the drumbeat on his steering wheel.


End file.
